


Do I Wake, Or Sleep?

by vanillabean



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Sandman
Genre: AU, Crossover, M/M, New York City, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillabean/pseuds/vanillabean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based on the prompt: "Englishmen in New York"</p><p>So, this whole idea began after I saw this:<br/>http://cs11210.vk.com/u92904721/-14/y_fcf94c14.jpg<br/>digital painting by Allegator and it struck me how much he reminded me of Morpheus, so I  of went from there and this fic was born.  </p><p>The title comes from a line in Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale" </p><p>I pull heavily from Preludes & Nocturnes as well as The Doll's House, but that was mostly for the character of Hob, or John in this case.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. A Final Entry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheJenMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJenMonster/gifts).



> Based on the prompt: "Englishmen in New York"
> 
> So, this whole idea began after I saw this:  
> http://cs11210.vk.com/u92904721/-14/y_fcf94c14.jpg  
> digital painting by Allegator and it struck me how much he reminded me of Morpheus, so I of went from there and this fic was born. 
> 
> The title comes from a line in Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale" 
> 
> I pull heavily from Preludes & Nocturnes as well as The Doll's House, but that was mostly for the character of Hob, or John in this case.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a journal ends and Dream becomes bored.

 

 

 

18th June, 2011

I think this may be my final entry for some time.  You see, I’m going away, and I’m not quite sure for how long.   So, I may as well finish these journals with these final words and volume.  I have left them in the care of one Mike Stamford, also known as Fiddler’s Green.  He will know what to do with them, whether his decision is to simply shelve them, destroy them, or forget them I do not know.  What I do know is that I most likely never return to the mortal world. 

                                                                                                                                                                                              

 

\-----------------------------------

What if, in some small, minute possibility, there were beings that foredain and guide humanity?  No, not deities per say, something else, something timeless, something…Endless.  Beings who are individually responsible for single aspects of our lives.  They choose the aspects of the planet’s dominant species which, lucky for us, happens to be humans.  So, yes they appear human, but are very far from it indeed.  Currently, there are six of them, and they share few features, save for their varying shades of pale flesh and astounding power. 

First we have the eldest, Destiny.  Yes, we are all on a predetermined path.  Though that path may take many twists, turns, and deviations there is the inevitable fact that our paths are absolute.  Destiny opts for plain, unobtrusively brown hooded robes.  He makes no sound wherever he treads, silence is his creed, for he speaks very little, save when the large, dusty tome shackled to his wrist bids him to.  His book - ah, there is an enigma.  For, while Destiny may bear the title, it is in actuality the book that determines our fates, and his.  In his book is written every detail of the lives of all beings on earth, including the Endless.  Destiny is a slave to himself.  

Next, we have the twins, Desire and Despair.  Two sides of the same coin, one cannot exist without the other.  Desire’s form is, well, whatever he/she/it decides.  Androgynous is the best way to describe them.  

To look upon the smallish frame of Desire is to be consumed - consumed by pure wanton need.  Desire is anything you could ever want or wish for, all wrapped up in a small, albeit attractive package.   Despair, the antithesis of her sister/brother, she is what happens when one ceases to want or need.  Unlike her twin, she is patient, she waits. Waits in the shadows, those dark, bleak corners of your mind where every self-doubt and regret live, waiting to usurp your entire being.  There is one way these two different beings are similar, they consume. 

Then there is Death.  She, yes Death is a woman.  While there are a few similarities between what has become the conventional portrayal of Death, such as her physique being rail thin and her wardrobe favouring black, that is where the similarities end.  She is bright and bubbly; one could imagine her as a very close friend.  Her personality does little to diminish her duty.  Hers is perhaps the hardest for humanity to accept, for we adore and revere life, we cling to it as a newborn does to its mother.  It is a very rare individual who can look into her face without flinching or pleading and yet, her warm, welcoming smile remains. 

Delirium.  Ah, now there is a fascinating member of the Endless.  She appears the youngest, and very well may be, but that is not for us to know.  Her appearance is chaotic, one eye is coloured a kingfisher blue, the other a chartreuse with silver flecks dancing throughout.  Her hair is usually a creamy yellow, and the length of it usually depends on her mood.  Her clothes appear as though she awoke in the dead of night and proceeded to get dressed in a sleep ridden stupor.  

Everyone has felt her touch now and again, and most have escaped her delicate fingers, but there are those who have remained in her realm to their last breath.  Delirium is a being that few can comprehend, but those who do make rarely make sense to the rest of us. 

Now, we have the final member of the Endless.  Dream.  Eyes, midnight black, and twin stars twinkle within the inky abysses.  His skin, whiter than alabaster, enveloping a lithe, muscled frame.  His hair, is ebony and as chaotic as the dreams and nightmares that he concocts within his realm.  Like his sister Death he often favours black, opting for flowing robes of obsidian.  If one gazes closely or at just the right angle one can just make out the glowing flames fluttering within his robes.  Although he does not often show it, he is a creature of emotion, which is often reflected in the state of his kingdom.  Once when he lost his first great love at the very beginning of human kind, he completely decimated the Dreaming.  Nothing grew for a hundred years, and it was many more before he smiled again.  He most often broods solemnly to distance himself from others.  He fears the rejection that he has experienced many times before.  

Now, there is a very little known fact about our story’s protagonist.  Every once in a great while, he walks in the mortal world, and he adopts the guise of a human being.  It is not known why he visits our realm.  Perhaps he is looking for companionship, acceptance, even love.  Perhaps, if we are patient dear reader, we shall find out. 

 

Now let us travel to the realm of the Prince of Stories and join its lord and master on his great balcony of ivory and stone.  

Within the Dreaming he has absolute power; he is both creator and destructor.  He places his ashen hands on the cold stone of the balcony wall and gazes over his nearly infinite kingdom.  There are many denizens of the Dreaming, some are the servants of Dream, others are the nightmares that plague our sleep, and still others are the very worlds that we visit in our dreams.  A solitary sigh escapes his colourless lips.  He is to put it simply, bored.  It seems odd that the fabricator of our dreams could succumb to such a trivial human emotion like boredom, but there were times when his imagination and motivation seemed to run dry.  Times where he would just sit on his immense stone throne, legs thrown over one of its arms and mope for days on end.  A breeze kisses his cheek and ruffles his already dishevelled hair, he closes his eyes and asks,

“Lucien?”

Immediately at his side is his ever-loyal manservant, Lucien.  Even taller and thinner than the Lord of Dreams, his appearance is almost fey like.  He has highly feline features, long pointed ears  and immense circular glasses cover the majority of his thin face.  While his official position in the Dreaming is that of head librarian, Dream often calls upon him in times of need and council.  He stops a few paces behind his master, replying voice that is soft, reminiscent of the summer wind in the trees,

“Yes my lord?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Very good sir, when will you be leaving?”

“In a few days, I need to make preparations.”

“Of course my lord.  If I may?”

“Yes?”

“How long will you be gone this time my lord?”

The Lord of Dreams gives the slightest of smiles, “To be honest, I’m not sure.”

Lucien smiles back, “Very good sir,” he bows at the waist and quietly exits the balcony.  Dream removes his hands from the railing and closes his eyes again.  He pauses for a few moments and contemplates his destination and form.  He closes his eyes, and exhales.  When he opens his eyes he is at the gates of the Dreaming.  He opens them and exits his kingdom. 

The void between the Dreaming and the mortal world swirls around his form tossing his raven cloak backward as he moves in between the planes.  The edges of the void pulse and churn, tinted with violet and black, occasionally the images of various planes of existence pass by Dream until his intended destination is laid out directly in front of him.  He places a single white hand through the image, which is quickly swallowed up, followed by the rest of his body. 

 

 


	2. For Some, Death is an Option

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John meets the Prince of Dreams, a wager is struck, and a is name chosen.

 

 

England – 1235 CE

John’s grey blue eyes scan the smoke and noise filled tavern.  He resides at a large oaken table. It has darkened with age and drink to an almost black that is stained with ribbons of chocolate.  His companions inhabit the bench next to him and across from him and contribute a substantial amount to the din of the room.  He does not join in.  Though he has known them for near on the entirety of his short span upon this earth, he has had little cause to develop a true kinship with any of them.  To him they seem obnoxious, boorish and rude.  Although, what more could one expect from those who prefer to frequent the alehouse every night over their own wives and children?  That is another thing that John does not share with his raucous table-mates, family.  His father was taken in the midst of battle, his mother following only a few months later, leaving his sister, only 15 years of age, to care for the both of them.  While she truly did try to scrape together a meagre living, it was not long before she found herself at the bottom of a bottle, leaving John to assume the role of caretaker and breadwinner.  Four short, harsh years later, she too passed.  Whether solely from drink, giving up, or a combination of the two John wasn’t sure.  The only thing he was sure of was that he was utterly, irrefutably alone.  For nigh on a decade he performed whatever work held the promise of coin.  When the decade of suffering came to a close, he found that he had enough scrimped together to purchase a tiny, arid scrap of land on the edges of the village.  He discovered that in this landscape, he thrived.  The simple task of working with his hands, bringing life to where there once was only dust and desolation filled him with a purpose and vitality that he had not felt in years. 

“Oi! Johnny boy!”

“What?” he blinks, exiting his stupor.

“Ano-ver drink?” inquires the large sweat ridden man sitting beside him.

“Nah, I’m done. Thanks anyway Albert.”

“Truly?  Y’ve only had but a pint!”

“I said I’m done!” he snaps, but quickly recoils as he realises the sharpness of his tongue. 

“Alright John, didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“S’alright, sorry.  Don’t know what came over me.”

The man flashes John a wide gummy grin, “I know what you need.”

“What?” asks John, curious.

“Some good old fashioned fuckin’!” he turns towards the other men at the table, “Am I right lads?!” The question is answered with a chorus of enthusiastic cheers and whoops.  They smash their tankards together, causing the ale to slosh out of their containers and over the group in a nut brown rain. 

John forces a well natured smile that refuses to reach his eyes, but in their inebriated glee, his table mates don’t notice.  Suddenly, he feels a hand touch his shoulder.  He wheels around in his seat and comes face to face with its owner.  The man looms over John.  He is tall and thin, startlingly pale and his hair falls in long black curls that caress his shoulders.  Their gazes lock, and he stifles a gasp.

_Oh, his eyes._

They seem to pierce through the very fabric of John’s soul.  In the dim flickering light their colour shifts and dances between a light crystalline blue, to a riotous aquamarine, to the hue of newborn buds on the trees in spring.  The man inquires in a wonderfully pleasant baritone,

“Sorry to disturb you gentlemen, but might I have the pleasure of joining you?”

John looks over the man once more, this time taking note of his clothing. 

_Tailored, luxurious fabric, the very height of fashion. What the hell does a man as noble as this want with us?_

“Uh, of course my lord,” mumbles John.

The man raises an eyebrow, as if confused, but swings his long legs over the bench and sits anyway.  He motions, in a gesture that is the very definition of grace, to the barmaid and requests a glass of her finest wine.  She nods her acknowledgement and quickly fetches it, bringing him the pewter cup with trembling hands.  The nobleman takes an experimental sip and upon tasting the beverage dips his head politely at the woman, who visibly relaxes.  After a few moments of awkward silence when Albert quietly asks,

“M-me lord?”

The stranger looks at the man, wine cup perched on his lips.

“I-if I may?”

“You may.”

The rotund man breathes heavily, “What brings a man as high and mighty as y-self to a dung heap like this?”

“A wager.”

“A...wager, sir?”

He swallows another mouthful of wine, “Yes, one that I hold with my sister.”

“A-and if I may be so bold me lord, what is this deal?” pipes up John.

“That if one of you gentlemen,” he wrinkles his nose at the word, “should so choose to, we would meet again in this tavern in exactly one hundred years  time.”

For a moment there is only stunned silence until one of the men at the table bursts out laughing, which is quickly picked up by the others, except for John.  He looks at the table and traces a whorl in the wood grain with a finger. 

“If I’m here in a hundred years, you can call me the bloody Pope!” shouts one.

“You’re mad sirrah, mad!” howls another.

The stranger looks at the laughing men, no readable expression on his face.  The men start to rise from the table and make their way to the exit, still sniggering and chuckling. 

“Very well then, since none of you shall take my wager, I bid you a good night,” he rises from his seat and makes for the door.

“Wait!” exclaims John, extending a hand as if to stop him.

The man ceases walking and turns his head slightly to glance at John from the corner of his eye, one brow raised and the smallest of smiles playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll take your deal, death is all a crock anyway.”

“Is it?” he questions, turning to face John fully, a false sense of curiosity tinting his words.

“Yeah, I mean if we all think we have to die, then we do, but if I say and believe that I don’t have to, well then I don’t have to.”

The man smiles, clearly amused, “Well then, you should have little trouble upholding our bargain.  But remember this is not some trivial wager.  All those you love and cherish will perish in these next hundred years.  Family, friends, all gone.”

John hangs his head and states in a sombre tone, “Well, I’ll have no troubles there, I don’t have any family left.  Also, never really made any friends.”

The stranger’s nonchalance breaks for the slightest second for John to catch a look of sadness and pity, but the expression fades as quickly as it came and he soon looks as indifferent as ever.

“Very well then John Watson, we shall meet again in one hundred years. Fare well.”

John’s stormy eyes widen in shock as he looks up to question the man, but there is naught but air.

 

 

 

The man who was Dream traverses down the dirt road from the pub but suddenly stops and smiles.

“Hello sister.”

Death steps out from behind a copse of trees, a grin plastered on her face.  Unlike her brother, she has not altered form in any way except to adopt the fashion, but given her appearance it does little to help her blend in.

“Hiya big brother!”

“What brings you here dear sister?”

She scoffs, “Don’t play stupid with me Dream, it doesn’t suit you.  Although I must say that form does,” she admits, gesturing to the whole of him, “Much less dour that your usual look.”

“Yes well...what do you think of my bet with John Watson?”

“I say give it a shot.  It should be interesting,” she pauses for a moment, placing a finger on her pursed lips, “Also, I should try the whole ‘human’ thing every once in a while, looks like fun!”

Dream chuckles, “Farewell sister,” and begins walking away from her.

“Bye Dream, catch ya later!”

He stops and turns in one fluid motion, “Oh, that’s another thing, while I’m in this form, call me...Sherlock.”


	3. Through the Centuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a name is learned, a man regrets, and a friendship blossoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, mainly I use it as a filler to introduce the character of Lady Anne. I also make a huge leap, spanning about 3 centuries, but those years will be filled in in the next chapter.

England – 1335 CE

“It is truly incredible how far we have come in a mere hundred years.  Scholars shall write of our amazing advancements,” exclaims John excitedly. 

“Yes,” replies Sherlock, looking rather bored with his surroundings, “you have come a long way indeed.”  In truth all that had really been accomplished within this century was various countries warring after a scrap of land that they deemed theirs, which of course angered the defending region and thus conflict ensued, a religious “debate” or rather “my God is better than your God” and behold, we have the Ninth Crusades, and some plagues broke out here and there across Europe killing millions.  But they did invent some rather clever things, clever in that they were machines that made for more imaginative methods of killing large amounts of people.  So, to say Sherlock was rather unimpressed with the so-called “Progress of Man” is a bit of an understatement. 

“So, my mysterious companion, what have you done in these long years we have been apart?”

Sherlock gazes off into the space behind his straw haired table mate, for while the Endless are beings of astounding prowess and ability they still must follow the linear time line that we mortals do.  Time does not pass any faster for their kind.  Sherlock went back to the Dreaming and he found that he was no more inspired than when he had left.  The visit to the Waking world left him feeling empty, hollow.  He was missing something.  It was possible that he had enjoyed John’s company more than the company of a normal human, he had felt a near instant connection the moment he met John, and when he had returned to the Dreaming, he found that he was sorely lacking in true companionship. 

For a few decades he created nightmares here and there, as well as some wondrous dreams.  He perused his vast library filled with all of the books that anyone has ever thought of or nearly finished writing.  True, the collection was ever expanding, but he quickly grew tired of literature and returned to moping.  His mood only improved when the time to meet John once more drew nearer, in fact if one would ask the servants, some would say he was almost giddy on the day he left for England. 

“Hello, you with me sirrah?” John waves a tanned, weather beaten hand in front of Sherlock’s dazed eyes. 

“I do apologise John...my mind was elsewhere.”

“That’s another thing, how do you know my name?”

“Why such a silly question John?” he asks, knitting his long fingers together.  

“I don’t think it’s silly! You seem to be on quite familiar terms with my name, but I don’t have the faintest of who you are!”

Sherlock flashes a crooked grin, “Very well then.  My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he rises from the table, doffs his hat and bends at the waist, “may the knowledge please you.”

John rolls his eyes, “Alright, you don’t have to be such a prick about it. But thank you.”

Sherlock smirks again, sits back down in his chair, and takes a sip of wine, “Now John, since I really have done little of merit in the past century, tell me, what have you done?”

John looks down at the table, the pattern of the wood grain suddenly becoming utterly engrossing.

“What is it?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I haven’t done much either.  I expanded my farm, built a better more comfortable home, bought a couple of cows and other livestock, and I finished the mill last summer.”

“That’s all?”

John sighs, “You’re really not from around here are you? I come from a family of farmers, peasants. That’s all we’ve ever been and that’s all we’re ever going to be. Until things change that is, and I don’t think that will be for some time.”

“Well,” Sherlock pushes his chair back and rises, “then it is a good thing that you have some time.”

John closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, “That’s very amusing and all but you just can’t –” he stops when his eyes open again and he finds that Sherlock is no longer across from him, or in the pub for that matter, “damn it,” he mutters, throwing money on the table for drinks, and exits the tavern.

_You owe me three shillings you are._

 

 

1645 CE

John Watson appears to be a healthy, robust 30 something man.  Yet he has lived on this earth for over 400 years.  He hides his secret well, every few decades he picks up and moves to a new location somewhere in England.  He favours quiet villages or forests, somewhere out of the way where hopefully none have heard the whispers of his existence.  But for all of his efforts there are rumours that ride the lips and wagging tongues of the more gossip prone citizens of the “Wandering Dane”.  John scoffs at the notion, because first off he isn’t even of Scandinavian blood.  However, due to the talk swirling around England, he is far too aware that he may have to leave behind the lush, verdant country of his birth. 

He has met with Sherlock only four more times since the 1300s and each visit is far too brief for his liking.  He wants to know more about this intriguing man, well he’s not exactly sure he is human, but in order to keep his head from hurting from the thousands of questions and possibilities that flood his mind from that particular line of thought, he just goes on assuming that Sherlock is a man. 

_Ignorance, I suppose truly is bliss._

Currently, John resides at the home of a very well to do nobleman, a Lord Robert of Kent, he had found work in the kitchens and tending to the vast gardens.  It is here that he meets the wife of his employer.  She too, loved spending time amongst the growing green things. 

“Life is just far simpler here than among the ladies at court,” she sighs.

John smiles politely up at his mistress and states quietly, “Yes milady.”

“How long have you been with us...”

“John milady.”

“John.  How long have you been with us John?”

“Only a few months mistress.”

“Really?  Well, then I must say I am impressed! The gardens have never looked more beautiful, more alive!  You have a gift, John,” she beams.

John flushes a bright pink, “Oh Madame, if you continue with your compliments I shall be guilty of the sin of pride!”

“Well, aren’t you a cheeky one!” she laughs, “Tell me John, what else can you do?”

The smile fades from his face as he admits, “Not much else milady, while I work in the kitchens I’m not really the best cook.”

“Can you read or write?”

John shakes his head.

“Well then, I shall teach you,” she proclaims.

“Why me milady, what makes me so fortunate?”

“I see it as an investment John.  You are obviously far more intelligent than you let on.  Let us see if you have an aptitude for the written word.”

So, in the fall of 1645 John begins his studies.  It takes some time to grasp the complexities and subtle nuances of written English, but after the first few hurdles John discovers that he has a penchant for writing, much to the joy of his mistress, who tells him that his journal entries, what he has shown her anyway, are beautifully penned. 

“John, you’re knowledge of the past four centuries is astounding!  Truly remarkable, you write as if you lived them!”

“I’ve just travelled a while milady, and the history of our country fascinates me a great deal.”

“But to remember that sheer amount of information is amazing! I was right to teach you John,” her smile illuminates her face with pride.


	4. Excerpts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we read from the journals of a man with all the time in the world.

The following are entries taken from the journals of John Hamish Watson occurring during the years 1235 to 1735:

 

**Volume One – 1235 to 1299**

 

_Forward_

I regret that in these first few volumes there are so few entries.  For I cannot possibly recall every wonder I have seen and since I only recently learned the art of writing, thanks to my mistress, the Lady Anne I will try to record everything I remember.

On another note, these journals span centuries, and that is for one reason.  That reason being that I have rejected the concept of the grave.  I believe that death is an option for all.  For what is more powerful than the will of the individual?  The will of thousands, millions of humans.   And because we have accepted death as an inevitability, it has become so.  But since I have rejected this concept, death has been reduced to but a word. 

 

_Autumn – 1235_

Met a strange man at the tavern today.  It was quite obvious he was a nobleman by the state of his dress.  Yet he showed no qualms about fraternizing with the likes of us.  He offered a most intriguing wager, and after the rest had declined, I remained.  After some unconvincing persuading on his part for me to not accept his offer, I agreed. 

 

_Summer – 1257_

I am now, by my account, around 56 years of age, and yet I look not a year older than the day I met my deal broker.  I continue to believe that death is an option for all. 

 

_Summer – 1262_

Some of the villagers have become suspicious of me.  I fear I may have to leave soon.

 

**Volume Two – 1300 to 1399**

 

_Autumn – 1335_

Returned to the tavern today. As promised, he was waiting for me.  Like me, he appeared to have aged not a day, save for updating his wardrobe.  I had so many questions for him, but the one that begged to be asked was his name, for he knew mine upon our meeting but I did not learn his until one century later.  I think I was owed something as simple as a name.  He told me his name was Sherlock, which is an old English word for “bright hair.”  An odd name, especially for one sporting curls as black as his, it is possible that “bright hair” could refer to the way those obsidian ringlets reflect the light. 

I want so much to know more about him.  His voice is so pleasant; I could spend hours talking with him, even if he can be a bit of a cheeky bastard at times.  I sound as if I have known him for years, but in truth I have only met the man twice, and each time only a little over an hour was spent in each other’s company.  I look forward to seeing him again in one hundred years time, but there is a large part of me that hopes I will see him in the long span of time in between, but I doubt I will.

 

**Volume Three – 1400 to 1499**

 

_Winter – 1401_

I have lost count of the number of times I have moved across the country.  I feel as if I’m running out of places to settle.  Often times I look for an abandoned cottage somewhere deep in the wilderness and spend as many years there as I can.  I have refrained from making any true connections with the people I encounter, for fear if I do, I will grow too attached and spend the remainder of their lives with them.  I do not think I could take losing one loved one after the other, I have lost far too many already.  While I live a solitary life, it is a good one.  I fear neither disease nor life ending injury.  As long as I have something to keep my mind and hands busy, I am content.

 

_Autumn – 1425_

Only 10 more years until I meet Sherlock again.  I wonder how he has changed.  I suspect just about as much as myself, but one still can’t help but wonder. 

 

_Autumn – 1435_

As I suspected, Sherlock has changed little.  This seemingly immutable man brings me a sense of stability, something constant in a world that is rapidly changing around me. 

However, this meeting was even briefer than the last.  I hope these visits do not get shorter and shorter each time.  He is one of the few, no, only individual who knows the entirety of my secret.  What if he forgets about me entirely?  Oh God, I do not think I could cope with that.  No, I must believe that he will keep returning.  I must cling to that hope.

 

 

**Volume Four – 1500 to 1599**

 

_Spring – 1502_

I do often wonder, in my years of wandering the English countryside and cities, if there is possibly something more I am meant to do? I love working the soil, tending the plants, the sun on my face.  I think what I enjoy is the nurturing, the caring.  But what could I do that entails these things?

 

_Autumn – 1535_

I was so right to hope that Sherlock’s visits were not shrinking into oblivion.  We spent hours together, the longest of his three visits.  God, have I only seen the man thrice in my life?  After our talks it seems as if I know the man if he were my own flesh and blood, and yet I still know next to nothing about him.  For he neither reveals nor divulges nearly no personal information.  I know not the place of his birth or whether he has any relatives or friends, though I suspect that like me he has very few of them, save myself.  I do count him as my friend, my closest in fact. 

I wonder, does he know or care about the numerous wars that have and are plaguing our country, and if he does, what side does he take?  So far I have managed to stray from these bloody family conflicts.  I do not wish to make myself responsible for the death of another.  For every child is told stories from the cradle of brave warriors and their glorious conquests in battle and how a boy should aspire to be so great.  Yet, I share none of these aspirations.  Does this make me a coward?  I wonder what Sherlock would think?  He would most likely roll those great blue green eyes of his in annoyance, scoff at my ridiculousness and say something about how boring and dull and tedious all of the royal family are.  That may be near treasonous to say, but I cannot help but chuckle at the thought. 

 

 

**Volume Five – 1600 to 1699**

 

_Autumn – 1635_

Our meeting was cut short this evening, there was a raid on the pub by the local constable, they were looking for some criminal wanted for poaching in His Majesty’s forest.  What I found interesting was just how Sherlock seemed to perk up when the word “criminal” was uttered.  Suddenly his face lit up and he craned his long elegant neck to try and see the drama unfolding in the crowded tavern.  Fortunately, they apprehended the poacher and brought him to the local jail, but by the time all of the noise had died down, Sherlock was gone. 

 

_20 th August, 1679_

I have spent far too long in the house of Lady Anne.  Her husband, Lord Robert passed almost 10 years ago last winter.  Normally, I would have left after a decade or more in their service, but I was just so selfish.  I had forgotten just how much I craved the company of others.  I will have to leave soon.  The lady often makes remarks about how I am the envy of every woman due to my youthful appearance; she then questions me for my “beauty secrets.”  I just smile and change the subject as quickly as I can. 

I have already begun to make preparations.  I shall miss Anne and her laughter greatly.  It is like many silver bells tinkling together in a beautiful chorus.  Anne, if you ever read this, just know that I counted you among my closest and dearest friends.  Without you, I would not have discovered my love of the written word.  I will miss you dearly, for you have enriched my life, filled it with happiness and knowledge, but I am afraid that I _must_ move on. 

 

_17 th September, 1680_

It has been little over a year since I left England.  I travelled across the Channel, so far the most adventurous undertaking of my life, to France, where I know live in a small village south of Provence.  It is beautiful here.  When I arrived there were fields of lavender as far as the eye could see.  The scent rode the air for miles and carried me away to a peaceful, bliss filled state of mind. 

I do not know where I will be meeting Sherlock in 1735, as the tavern finally collapsed after our last meeting.  Perhaps he will find a way to contact me.  A man can only hope. 

 

 

**Volume Six – 1700 to 1799**

 

_30 th December, 1715_

So much has changed in the world since my birth in 1201.  Most of it for the better, humanity has come so far in these past 500 years.  I have noticed such advances in medicine, agriculture, art and the sciences.  Although, I believe we still have a long way to go to truly improve and understand our lives, though we are making great strides.

Only 20 more years.

 

_17 th October, 1735_

I had such a wonderful dream last night.  In it I was picking through the dust laden rubble of the old tavern back in England, when out from the shadows steps Sherlock!  He greeted me with a small smile.  A genuine grin, not the false sort that does not fully reach his eyes, the kind he reserves for those he deems to stupid or dull.  This smile reaches his eyes, lending more light to those already shining orbs.  I returned the grin and rose my hand in greeting.  He then told me of our next meeting place, my cottage, two days hence.  I thought it was strange that he would opt for a private meeting place so suddenly, but I digress.  My only thought in my dream state was of joy at the prospect of seeing him again. 

 

_18 th October, 1735_

I am, in a word, nervous.  He has never visited my home before.  Suddenly, my abode seems so small and, what’s the word? Shite? Yes, shite.  Especially in comparison to his obvious noble origins.  A part of me, a very large part, reasons that Sherlock could not have possibly contacted me through my dreams of last night.  Though, there is that small part that remains, and a very naive part of me it is, that whispers that he has always come.  


	5. An Unpleasant (Sort of) Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a visitor comes calling, deductions are made, conversation is had, and questions arise.

 

Sunlight streams in through the dusty windows of John’s cottage, holding the promise of a crisp autumn day.  He exhales, his breath condensing into a small cloud of steam.

_Great, it’s cold today...wonderful._

He rises stiffly from his small wooden bed; it creaks and groans in protest, and he pads across to the fireplace in his small eating area.  He crouches in front of the hearth, grabbing his flint and tinder and lights a small fire.  He warms his hands over the small blaze and embers. 

_Okay, breakfast_.

John crosses the small distance between the fireplace and his meagre pantry to grab sustenance.  He grabs a loaf of hearty grained bread and a small piece of goat’s milk cheese, sits down at the table and begins to munch on his small breakfast. 

The flutter of a page catches John’s attention, but he thinks nothing of it.  The cottage is old and draughty, so the wind disturbing the pages of his journals is nothing new.  

“John, you really are quite a good writer, a little romanticised for my tastes, but you have a gift for story telling nonetheless.”

John bolts out of his chair, knocking it to the rush covered floor and makes a beeline for the intruder.  He rams into the man, grabbing him around the waist and tackling him to the ground.  The wind rushes from the man’s lungs, followed by a faint “oof” and “ouch”.  John looks at the face of the infiltrator for the first time and mutters,

“Oh.”

From underneath, Sherlock utters a muffled, “Good to see you too John.  I must say this is a rather...enthusiastic greeting.”

John smacks his head against Sherlock’s narrow chest in embarrassment, “Yeah...um, sorry about that.  I just sort of, reacted I guess.”

Sherlock responds with a deep chuckle, “Now that we have established that I am not some sort of criminal, perhaps you might get off me?”

John flushes crimson and quickly climbs off of Sherlock’s body and turns away from him, brushing the dust and bits of rush from his thread bare clothes.  Sherlock rises from the floor and brushes the offending dirt off of his garments as well. 

“What were you saying before I, well attacked you?”

“I was saying what a talent you have for writing John, you’re journals are most intriguing.”

“You –” John rounds on him, eyes blazing, “you read my journals!?”

“Yes,” confusion colouring his words and face, “I don’t see how –”

“How what?!”

“I don’t understand how that is a problem John.”

“Those are _my_ private thoughts, Sherlock, my _private_ writings! Have you no concept of that?!”

“I – I’m sorry John,” shame fills his eyes, “I’m not used to these sort of things being denied to me, anything being denied to me for that matter.  I should have asked before invading something as private as your penned thoughts.”

John looks at him in shock.  For all of Sherlock’s shortcomings and misdoings the largest was his ego and with that came the feeling that he was always in the right, he had never apologised for any of his transgressions, so it should come as no surprise that John was utterly gobsmacked. 

“You’re sorry? Did you actually just apologise?”  he questions, teasing just a bit.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but flashes John a small crooked grin.

“Yes I did, and you shan’t hear it again for quite some time, I would imagine.  So remember this moment well John Watson,  on the 19th of October in the year 1735 I, Sherlock Holmes, do apologise for going through your private, personal belongings.”

“God, you can be such a prat, you know that? Do you have to be such an annoying dick all the time?”

Sherlock simply snickers, obviously amused with himself.  John walks over to the small side table that supports his now numerous journals, some showing more definite wear than others.  He runs his hands over the rough covers of the ones lying on top and over to the one that Sherlock had opened, it was the entry dated _Autumn 1535_ and flushes pink once more.  This was one of his more intimate entries, especially concerning his blossoming friendship with the man who was now occupying space in his home.  He looks up at the taller man who is looking down at him, as if examining him, gleaning all possible facts that he can. 

“You’re pink John, what is it?”

“It-it just that the entry you read, it was so personal, I suppose I have a hard time sharing any of my emotions with anyone.  I’ve never really been able to do that.”

“Is that what you think of me as John?  A confidant?” he scoffs.

“No! No, I think of you as a friend Sherlock, one of my only one’s in fact.  In truth, you are my closest.”

“I know John,” he speaks, nearly whispering it.

“You know?”

“Ha! Of course I do! You wrote it down did you not?”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I wanted to hear it from you, from your lips.”

“Why?”

“Shouldn’t you have realised this by now John.  I’m a selfish being, when I want something I will nearly move heaven and earth to get it.”

“Yes alright. I’ve said it, happy now?”

“Hmm...for the moment,” he sits on the edge of John’s bed and steeples his fingers, “But I did mean what I said before John.  You have a talent, even if you do tend to over dramatise and romanticise the events of the past.”

“Ha,” John snorts coldly, “you sound like Anne, minus the dripping sarcasm.”

“Ah yes, Anne.  You had quite a few entries about her,” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow.

“Well I should!  I spent quite a bit of time with her!” he states defensively.

“I see.  You fancied her.”

John sighs and joins Sherlock on the bed, putting his head in his hands, “How could you tell?”

“Pupils dilated at her mention, breathing increased slightly, more colour came into your cheeks.  Really the list does go on, should I continue?”

“You, how could you possibly have noticed that?”

“I don’t notice, I observe,” he states haughtily.

“Yes well, to tell you the truth.  I did and at the same time I didn’t fancy her.  It was true that she was a very beautiful woman and her laughter was infectious, but the thing I think I was attracted to was the companionship.  It had just been so long since I had truly bonded with anyone, and she was just so nice to me.  What with teaching me to read and write, and then when I showed her some of it, she just kept pouring on the compliments.  It was almost...addictive.”

“You had a family then, well of course, everyone does at some point, but this one you were attached to.  You lost your parents at a young age, and going by our obvious lack of connections with the rather boorish men sitting beside you when I met you, you had a sibling with the same habits and separated yourself from them.  Thus, when I met you and offered you my wager, you were so ready to accept.  Am I wrong?”

John blinks, stunned, “Y-yes.  My dad went off to fight in the Crusades and died just months after leaving.  Mum, just fell apart.  I think she just sort of gave up and when she died she left just me and my sister.”

“Sister?”

“Yeah, Henrietta.”

“Damn, always something, sister,” Sherlock mumbles to himself.

“She was only about 14 when she had to start taking care of me, and well she tried.  But I think she just gave up too and she turned to drinking.  Sack mostly, nasty stuff.   And, well it wasn’t long before she went too.  So yeah, when I told you I had no one, I meant it.”

“I see.”

“So, what about you?”

Sherlock glances over at John, puzzled and gestures to himself, “What about me?”

“No,” he laughs, “I mean do you have any family?”

“Well, yes I do.”

“And...?”

“And what?”

“What are they like, Sherlock? How many siblings do you have, what were your parents like?

“I have five siblings, four sisters and one brother.  Originally, there were more of us, eight in fact, but my sister died many years ago, and my brother, well...he decided that he was no longer a part of the family.  As for parents, if I had them, I do not remember them.  In truth, I do not see, nor wish to see most of my siblings very much, unless necessity demands it.”

“Well, it’s good to know we have something in common then, eh?”

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

The hours tick by, and soon, day turns to evening.  A soft glow colours the landscape, painting it with warm hues of yellows, oranges, and reds.  The setting sun casts long shadows across the ground, but John and Sherlock seem to pay the time of day no mind.  They sit and talk, well John questions Sherlock more, sometimes on political topics, to which Sherlock only responds, “Boring,” or on music, Sherlock answers that he think that humanity still has a long way to go in that particular area, as he does appreciate the structural nature of this period of music, when John asks about literature Sherlock doesn’t even comment, but when John questions about the sciences Sherlock’s eyes twinkle, almost like stars.  He seems especially excited about the recently invented method of blood transfusion, steam turbines and engines, the thermometer, and the micrometer.  Both conversation and fire blaze warm and strong, lending a cheerful glow to the small home. 

Darkness follows quickly, and John begins to grow tired.  Sensing this Sherlock offers that John retire for the night, John is reluctant, but Sherlock persuades him into the bed.  He offers to stay with him until he is asleep, and John happily accepts. 

Sherlock sits at the table next to the hearth, one leg crossed over the other, fingers laced together, eyes flitting and darting across the room.  He takes stock of John’s meagre possessions, with each observation he comprehends who John is just a little bit more.  Eventually his eyes come to rest on the sleeping man.  His chest rising and falling evenly, the signs of a deep and restful sleep.  Sherlock rises from his chair and crosses over to the bed.  He leans over John, places a hand gently on the side of his head, and whispers softly,

“Pleasant dreams John Watson.”


	6. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a man leaves his country for another, John is easily embarrassed, and an argument is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from Hamlet's soliloquy in Act III Scene I.

 

 

 

John wakes the next morning with a start.  His eyes snap open and he throws back the covers, a single syllable escapes his lips,

“Sher –”

But upon the realisation that his friend is not there a wave of sadness falls over him.  Last night had been one of the best nights he had experienced in centuries.  To sit there for hours and just talk with a friend meant the world to him.  Although, he was grateful that Sherlock had kept his promise to stay with him until he fell asleep.  As he thinks back on last night he remembers, vaguely, perhaps he is imagining it, a soft gentle hand on his face, and the deep velvet baritone of Sherlock’s voice whispering, wishing him pleasant dreams.  A kindly touch, the hand on his cheek, such tactile memories could not possibly have been dreamt, he thinks.  No, that was real, John touches his cheek and an unfamiliar warmth spreads through him, a glow he had not felt since, his stomach drops.

_Anne.  I felt this way when Anne.  No, it can’t be. No._

He rises from his bed, pushing all thoughts of that _particular_ nature to the back of his mind, and goes about his daily chores.

 

Hamburg – 1800 CE

It is at the dawn of a new century that John finds himself in what is now Germany.   While the food reminds him slightly of the hearty fare of England, the people are very different.  When John first arrives, like in France, there is a major language barrier and to make matters worse, the Germans seem cold and distant.  It’s quite a culture shock to the small talk loving Englishman.  But after some months and quite a few pints of beer at the local watering hole, John discovers that the Germans can be just as friendly as anyone, it just takes some time to integrate oneself into the culture and hearts of the people. 

So much has changed in the world in the nearly 600 years that John Watson has walked the earth.  He alone has been the witness to the rise and fall of empires, the countless wars waging across Europe, from the last of the so-called “Holy Wars” in 1297 to Napoleon staging his coup d’état in 1799.  He has seen the amazing progress of mankind, their knowledge of the world steadily and more rapidly increasing.

 

Berlin – 1835 CE

John paces nervously in his home on the outskirts of the city.  Tomorrow is the 19th of October and yet he has had no message, dreams, or any semblance of communiqué of where Sherlock wants to meet him.  This worries him and he finds himself becoming more and more anxious with each passing hour.  Last century he did so love the privacy and intimacy of their meeting.  They could talk freely without fear of being overheard, free from the questioning eyes puzzling over a nobleman and a peasant sitting together who were obvious friends. 

The sun begins to duck behind the horizon, setting the city aglow in tones of reds and yellows.  John sighs, exasperated.  He makes ready for bed, stripping off his over-clothes, washes his face and retreats underneath the covers of his bed.  He closes his eyes and sleeps.

He dreams.

A field of golden grass flows and undulates around him like the waves of an ocean.  The sky above him is a pure, unspoilt blue, the kind of blue that can only be found during the height of autumn.  He relishes in the open space and starts running through the field.  He feels almost child-like, and it is _wondrous_. 

“Hello John...” says an unmistakeable voice in his ear.

John jumps and turns to find Sherlock in the field with him.  His black curls have been trimmed, now only reaching to the middle of his ears, but with the wind rippling through his hair it tosses those curls to and fro, lending an almost feral appearance to the man.  His long oyster coloured overcoat whips around his slender frame, stirring up the grasses even further.

“You, you cut your hair,” states John stupidly, unable to come up with a proper greeting.

“Do you like it?”

“No! No, nothing like that, in fact I prefer it this way.  It suits you.”

Sherlock glows, if John knew anything after all this time, it was how to stroke Sherlock’s rather massive ego.

“So, I’m guessing we’re meeting like this so you can tell me where we’ll meet in the morning.”

“Yes.  Where would you like to meet?”

“Umm...Is my home okay, I really did like that last time.”

Sherlock smiles, “I had hoped you would say that.  I too did enjoy our time together last century. It was...nice.”

“Yes...nice.”

They stand awkwardly in the field for a few moments; the only sound is the wind rustling the grass.

“Uh, Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course John.”

“How exactly do these dreams work?  I mean how do two people have the _exact_ same dream and right before we’re supposed to meet?  It doesn’t seem humanly possible.”

Sherlock looks toward the earth and he says quietly,

“Look John, I –”

John wakes up just as he hits the hard wooden floor with a loud thud.

“Oww...”he groans, gripping his shoulder that took the impact of his fall, “why do you always wake up before the most important part of a dream?”

“I don’t know John, why do you?” questions Sherlock from the corner next to John’s bed.  John jumps up from the other side with a yelp,

“Jesus Sherlock! Can’t you use the door like a normal person?!”

“I did,” he says dejectedly, “you were just so sound asleep that my presence had no effect on you.  I have to say John, I’m a little hurt,” he mocks.

John rolls his eyes then remembers that he’s naked except for his rather thin cotton night shirt.

“Uh, Sherlock...”

“Hmm?”

“Would you mind going elsewhere while I, you know, dress?”

“Problem?”

“Uh, yeah! I’m practically naked!”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were so concerned about modesty.  I’ll have to remember that next time I visit.”

“Yes well, that’s all fine and good but would you please leave so I can at least put some trousers on?”

“As you wish,” he bows and saunters out of the room.

John grabs a pair of grey trousers from his foot locker and he turns towards the door, just to make sure that Sherlock is well and truly gone.  But in doing so he gets one of his legs tangled in the leg of his trousers and ends up on the floor for the second time that morning.

“Ah! Damn it...”

“John, are you alright?” calls Sherlock from the hall.

“Ow, yes.  Just fell.”

“Again?  Is this going to become a habit?”

“Ha ha, very funny Sherlock.”

“You just seem to have an aptitude for it so I thought I may as well ask.”

John picks himself up off the floor and grabs a worn black and grey striped dressing gown from the foot of his bed and throws it over his shoulders.  He walks out and into the small kitchen where he finds Sherlock helping himself to some bread and black currant preserves. 

“You know, if you wanted some food you could have asked.”

“You seemed otherwise occupied so I helped myself.  I had no trouble in tracking down some nourishment.”

“Cut me a piece would you?”

Sherlock picks up the knife and slices a piece of bread for John, who then grabs the preserves and smears the fruit flavoured jelly over the bread.

“Want some tea?” asks John swallowing his bite.

“Coffee, if you have it, black, two sugars.”

“I think I’ve got some,” he goes rummaging through the cupboards until he unearths a small tin canister lurking behind his foodstuffs, “uh here. I’ll get some water boiling.”  John places the kettle full of water on the stove top.  He opens the door beneath the burner and lights a fire.  He wanders over to the coffee grinder, pours the beans and begins to turn the handle until he has enough beans for him and his guest.  By then the water has begun to boil and the kettle squeals from the release of steam.  John grabs some cheese cloth and spreads it over the mouth of the coffee pot, adds the beans and pours the water over them.  Their drink finally prepared John grabs two cups and saucers from his dish cupboard and two sugar cubes for Sherlock.  He looks at his dishes and blushes.  They are chipped and worn, he is ashamed to be serving his guest food and drink from such shoddy dishware. 

“Don’t be embarrassed John.  I could care less as to the state of your dishware.  Finery does little to impress me.”

“How did you – you know what, never mind.”

“I told you before John, I observe.”

“Yeah...right.  Umm, here’s your coffee, sugar’s on the saucer.”

“Thank you.”  Sherlock stirs the cubes into the black liquid.

“You’re welcome.”

They sit together and drink their beverages in a blissful silence until John asks,

“So Sherlock, I...” The other man looks up from his cup, “I noticed that you cut your hair.”

“Didn’t we already have this conversation John?” he inquires, slightly annoyed.

“Aha!  I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“That it wasn’t just a dream I had last night, or for the past couple of centuries.  You were able to contact me somehow in my sleep!  What is it, hypnotism, drugs, what?”

Sherlock stares darkly at him, “Not even close John.”

“What then?”

“I can’t tell you, not just yet.  Also most, yourself included would not believe me if I told you.”

“Why the hell not?!  I’m sure whatever explanation you have to give is perfectly logical.”

“Think about it John.  I shot down all of your ‘perfectly logical’ explanations so when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however _improbable_ , must be the truth,” he grabs John’s upper arms and squeezes gently, “I promise I _will_ tell you, the next time we meet, but not now.  I promise John.”

Sherlock releases his hold and John crosses his arms, “Fine.  Next time.  I’ll hold you to it Sherlock.”

The taller man smiles, “When have I ever not kept my promises John?”

“Never.”

“Good, then, until next time John,” he walks out the door.  


	7. Ensnaring a Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet an imbecile, mistakes are made, and John goes searching.

**England – 1916 CE**

Roderick Burgess sits in his dark and imposing manor just outside of Wych Cross.  He is preparing – preparing to make the impossible, possible.  Tonight he will become immortal.  For millennia, mankind has dreamt of escaping the icy grip of the grave and he believes that he has found a way to achieve this.  He has gathered his followers and they wait for him in the cellar. 

“Magnus,” chirps up the small boy, his son, from behind him, “we are ready.”

“Good.”

They proceed down the flight of cold stone steps and into the chamber.  In the centre sits a massive summoning circle, carefully carved into the stone floor.  Hooded men surround the circle, torches burn behind them casting their shadows into thin writhing fragments. 

Roderick speaks, “Gentlemen, we have long dreamt of this night.  The night in which we will ensnare Death itself and become immortal! Let us begin!”

The men start to chant, it starts off as hissed whispers and with each passing line it grows in volume and strength.  As it does so, the air begins to shimmer and as the last stanza ends in shouted words a plume of grey-black smoke produces the crumpled form of a rail thin man.  His face is obscured by a massive helm, around his neck glows a blood red stone, and in his ashen hand he holds a small worn pouch.  The men scramble to grab these items from their prisoner and after removing the they glance at their leader, who shakes his bald head.

“This is not Death, but we still have a very powerful being in our hands.  It is possible that we can make something out of this yet.  But first we need to figure out who _he_ is,” he states sullenly pointing to the shallowly breathing figure. 

 

\------------------------------------------

A week passes before the man awakens.  He takes stock of his surroundings.

_A glass sphere.  Trapped.  Ensnaring magic binding me.  Idiot. Stupid, stupid.  Should not have let such paltry magic trap me._

He looks up to find a short bald man with an enormously bulbous hooked nose staring at him from the other side of the glass.

“Hello,” he starts pleasantly, “my name is Roderick Burgess,” the other man raises an eyebrow as if to say, “so?” “And all I ask is that you grant me one small favour.  Just that, and I will release you.”

“No.”

“Fine.  We’ll start off smaller then...Tell me who and what you are and I will return your clothes to you.”

He looks down at himself for the first time since he woke and finds that he is indeed, stark naked.  But to him, this matters little.  So he says again,

“No.”

“Very well,” growls his captor as he storms out.

Outside of the chamber, Roderick’s son Alexander comes rushing towards him with a large moth eaten book clutched between his arms.

“Father!  I have found it!”  he opens the book to a page bearing a single illustration that holds a  remarkable resemblance to the appearance of the man they now hold captive.  Also contained on the page are four words scrawled in the top left corner.  The words read:

 

 

“So I was right.  We failed to capture Death but we did find this _thing_ instead.  Perhaps he can still grant me what I want.”

Dream opens his obsidian eyes as he hears the two men descending the steps.

_Must find a way out._

“I’ll ask you again, give me what I want and I will free you.”

“No.”

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

The Endless perform their duties because it is what they must do.  They exist to carry out these tasks, so what would happen if we removed one of them from their position of power?  It is possible that this aspect of humanity would cease.  This is the prevailing idea behind Burgess’ theory, he believes that in removing Death from their seat of power then we would no longer fear death.  Instead, he removed Dream from his function, and what this will cause remains to be seen.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

Around the world, day turns to night, as it does in this seemingly endless cycle, and its denizens begin to sleep.  They begin to dream.  However, tonight is different; their sleep is deep, abyssal.  When their loved ones come to rouse them from their slumber the sleeping ones cannot be roused.  Try as hard as they might, they remain in the Dreaming.  The most vulnerable are children; their minds are still so open to the endless possibilities of the Dreaming and are therefore more likely to fall prey to it.  Some are more fortunate than others, they can walk about and seem to be aware of obstacles in their path, but they do not respond to those around them.  They are trapped in this state of being.  Still others wake from time to time, but with each waking they do not remember where they are, nor when. 

 

**Wych Cross, England – 1932 CE**

Every day brings the same routine for Roderick Burgess, but he has made no more progress than the day he imprisoned the man in the basement.  Every day he pleads with the man for what he desires most and every day he receives the same answer, “No.”

The boredom tears at Dream’s being, threatening to push him to the brink of insanity.  Each day he retreats further into himself, plotting a way out.  But with each new idea comes the crushing blow of defeat.  There is no foreseeable way out save for patience.

_Patience._

He knows that some years have passed, however he does not know how many.  His thoughts drift to John and he hopes that he will find a way out before their scheduled meeting, but at this point, even that looks grim. 

 

 

**John Watson’s Journal**

20th October, 1935

Sherlock didn’t come yesterday.  I had no dreams about him coming, so I guess I should have expected this...

But he promised...

 

“He promised damn it!” he shouts, slamming his fist on the desk, “No, something must have happened to him.  He always keeps his promises, always.  I _will_ find him.”

 

**Wych Cross, England – 1940 CE**

The world is at war.  Opposite sides tear and rip at each other in a desperate struggle for dominance.  But within the confines of his glass orb, Dream wages his own battle.  Burgess’ age is beginning to show, he is rapidly declining and it won’t be long until his sister comes to claim him for her own.  His pleas have become more whimpering messes than anything, he constantly blubbers at Dream, begging him for immortality.  He constantly complains that he didn’t have to get old and it is because of Dream that he’s dying.  Dream just stares at him blankly, Burgess’ cries fall on deaf ears. 

 

**New York City, United States – 1942 CE**

It is in this year that John finds himself across the Atlantic for the first time in his nearly 800 years on earth.  There are many reasons as to why John found himself in the United States but the largest is that there have been whispers around the city of a strange man wandering the streets who is pale in complexion, has piercing eyes, and curly black hair.  While this is a vague description, it is all that John has to go on.  However, while searching for Sherlock John has discovered something about himself.  He wants to become a doctor. 

Eventually he finds himself on the steps of the New York University School of Medicine.  Though the courses are rigorous, John thrives.  The idea that he will be able to help others, care for them, and allow others to live in a time of war and desolation nearly replaces the void that Sherlock had filled.  He even meets another friend, and fellow Englishman, Mike Stamford.  He wants to become a Paediatric doctor while John wants to become a surgeon, though they are two different fields, they form a bond nonetheless.   It is obvious from the first moment that they meet that Mike has a zeal and love of life.  He is easy to laugh and very rarely does he give in to blue moods.  It is in this way that he provides a perfect distraction for John.  Mike is nearly the opposite of Sherlock.  Where Sherlock is thin and lithe, Mike is rotund and somewhat clumsy, where Sherlock is brooding and sometimes distant, Mike is warm and nearly a constant presence. 

Together, Mike and John complete their studies and graduate from the University, John summa cum laude, in the June 1950.  Luckily for John, the Dean of Medicine from the Bellevue Hospital Center grabs him just after he receives his degree and offers him a job assisting their head surgeon.  To which John quickly accepts after a moment of stunned silence.  Mike gives him a hearty slap on the back and a boisterous, “Congratulations Johnny!” to which John replies with a warm smile and an animated laugh. 

_Wow! I haven’t laughed like that since...oh, since Sherlock..._

His smile drops from his face,

“What’s wrong Johnny?”

“It’s nothing Mike, I was just thinking about an old friend.”

“Oh?” He glances slyly at John, “who was she?”

“Ha!” he laughs tonelessly, “It wasn’t anything like that.  My friend went missing a long time ago, we were supposed to meet up at my house and he never showed.  So I went looking for him, and I heard that there was a man fitting his description was seen in New York City, and I guess that’s how I wound up here.”

“Oh John...I am sorry.  How long has he been missing for?”

“Since October of 1935.”

“Jesus, that’s a long time.  When was the last time you saw him?”

“October 19th, 1835,” John mumbles under his breath without thinking.

“What?! Say that again”

“I – I said, uh October 19th, 1935.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said...Did you talk to the police?”

“Well yeah, the ones in Germany.  I was living there at the time.  They said they’d look, but nothing turned up so I just decided to look on my own.”

“Hoom...” Mike meditates, “what was his name if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Mike snorts, “Shouldn’t be too hard to find a man with a name like that.”

“Yeah, you would think.”

“What did he look like?  That way I could keep an eye out as well, if the rumours are true and he is in New York then it wouldn’t hurt to have two pairs of eyes looking now, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose not...He was about 180 some centimetres in height, a mop of black curls on his head, blue eyes, well, not really blue, more blue-green, no, grey...uh, let’s just say blue eyes.  Really pale skin, almost porcelain.  Oh, he was kind of a brooding, moody sort of guy but with a massive ego to wrap up the whole package.”

“I see...Well thank you John, that was most enlightening and helpful.  We should have no trouble in tracking him down, eh old boy?”

“Yeah, none.”

_I guess it won’t hurt to have Mike searching too, but it still seems almost a fool’s errand.  It’s been 115 years since I’ve seen him.  I mean he could have gone missing before 1935 and I wouldn’t have even known it!   God I miss you Sherlock!  Where are you?_

 

**Wych Cross, England – 1950 CE**

_Patience.  Patience.  Patience._

It echoes and pounds in Dream’s head in a ceaseless cycle.  This has become his mantra, his creed.  Even though his captor Roderick Burgess passed nearly 10 years ago, Dream remains a prisoner in his glass orb, the magic still binds him.  He has discovered that if the circle that surrounds his prison is broken he shall be free.  Unfortunately for him, Burgess’ son, Alexander has guards posted round the clock and they are given anything, coffee, drugs, _anything_ to keep them from falling asleep, and thus under Dream’s control.   So, he waits.

 

**New York City, United States – 1966**

Within 16 years at Bellevue Hospital Center, John finds himself in the prestigious position of head surgeon and with it, the benefits of the comfortable life on a doctor’s salary.  He purchases a spacious home in the Upper East Side and does his absolute best to fit in with the well-moneyed of New York, but he finds it hard to get along well with the stuffy aristocrats and their constant talk about finances.  So, he spends most nights at work or alone in his study, writing.  He tries to keep in touch with Mike, but he left a few years back to work at the Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia, so the letters have become less and less frequent to the point where the last one that John received was postmarked the 30th of November, 1964.  He promised John he would keep an eye out for Sherlock, and this provided some comfort to John, but not much.  He had nearly abandoned all notions of finding his oldest friend. 

 

**Wych Cross, England – 1972**

Alexander Burgess is now the same age as his father was when he captured the Prince of Dreams.  He has followed in his father’s footsteps and kept the order alive even though the man he would have called upon for advice, his father’s next in command left years ago with the artefacts retrieved from Dream upon his entrapment.  

He too, calls upon his prisoner for immortal life, but like his father he receives the same answer,

“No.”

 

**New York City, United States – 1975**

John finds that when you have money and live in a city as massive as New York no one really gives a rat’s arse who you are, as long as you pay them enough.  So, John is able to stay relatively invisible as he transfers to Mount Sinai Hospital where, much to his surprise he finds Mike.

“JOHN!!” he shouts from down the hall in a boisterous greeting.

“Mike? Is that you?!” he calls back with hands cupped around his mouth and a large grin plastered on his face.

“Of course it is Johnny!” they meet in the middle and greet each other with a warm hand shake.

“Mike!  It’s so good to see you!  You – you haven’t aged a day!”

Mike’s laugh rumbles in his ample belly, “Neither have you Johnny,” he points out.

“Wha – what? Of course I have,” he stammers defensively. 

Mike pulls John down to an empty hallway and says under his breath, “No.  No you haven’t John.  Not a day since we last met, and as you pointed out, neither have I.  So, what does that make us?”

“Special?” he asks cheekily.

“Sure.  That’s one way of putting it.  But in all seriousness Johnny, I must ask...how old are you?”

John thinks for a moment, “About seven hundred and seventy five.”

“Hoom...so when did you really last see your friend Sherlock?”

“1835.”

“I see...”

“See what?”

Mike waves a hand in dismissal, “Nothing John, don’t worry about it.”

John blinks, “well alright.  Ah, listen Mike, I have to go into surgery in a few minutes...but it was really nice seeing you again.”

Mike beams, “Indeed Johnny.  Always a pleasure.”

The shake hands again and John turns towards the main hall and says over his shoulder,

“Just tell me this Mike, how old are you?”

Mike emits a rumbling laugh, “As old as the hills and the earth in your dreams Johnny...”

“What?” John turns back to Mike but finds the hall empty.


	8. After Long Years, How Should I Greet Thee?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new millennium comes to pass and a punch is thrown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from Byron's "When We Two Parted"

 

 

**John Watson’s Journal**

15th May, 1989

It is very simple to hide in a city.  Here you can simply walk amongst the crowds and it’s as if you have become invisible.  No one cares, unless you accidentally bump into them, well, that’s a different story all together. 

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this sooner, staying anonymous in a city is so much simpler than a small town where tongues wag as easily as the sun rises. 

It feels like ages since I have seen Sherlock.  Every once in a while I think I catch a glimpse of him in a crowd but that feeling dies as quickly as it arose.  God I miss him.

 

 

**Wych Cross, England – 1999 CE**

Nearly a century has passed since Dream’s capture.  Alexander too, has gone the way of his father; leaving his assistant James to live up to Alexander’s last wishes and achieve what he and his father could not. 

The Prince of Dreams still says very little except to refuse the pleas of James just like his predecessors.

_Humans.  When will they learn?_

A clock’s chimes echo throughout the hallway, sounding the time.  Midnight.  Dream glances at his guards.

“ ‘Appy New Year Bob,”

“Yeah, 2000, can’t believe we get to see a new millennium.”

_2000? Has it really been that long? John’s going to murder me..._

**New York City, United States – 2010 CE**

John sits in a nearly vacant coffee shop on 1st avenue, glances at his watch and sighs when he sees the time.  5:23 am.  Too early to head to work, and too late to try and sleep.  That was what he had been attempting for the past few hours, but sleep just seemed to elude him. 

_I’ve never had trouble sleeping before.  Why tonight?_

He does a double take as he notices the date, 19 October.  He gathers his head in his hands and they slowly slide down his face.

“Can I get you something else?” pipes up the girl at the counter, “Refill? Something to eat?”

John glances at his nearly empty cup; a ring encircles the inside of the cup where the coffee once filled the cup. 

“No, I’m good.  Thanks though.”

“Suit yourself,” she huffs.

John opens his ever present journal, takes out a pen and starts writing.

 

**Wych Cross, England - 18th October, 2010**

_Something is different.  Excellent._

These guards that James hired are not nearly as wired as the previous batches, no, in fact they are slowly giving into sleep.  One stretches his leg out as he slides down the wall and it cuts across the binding circle, erasing a section of it. 

_Perfect.  A way out._

Dream grabs a handful of dirt that has gathered at the edge of the sphere and holds it in an outstretched palm. 

_Waited this long, can wait just a few more moments for them to succumb._

And indeed they do, the go quickly into the comforting arms of sleep and Dream blows the dirt over the two sleeping men and in an instant some of his power is returned to him as he enters their dreams.  The sphere explodes with a cacophonous shatter, rousing the two men from their brief sleep, but it is too late.  Dream has escaped. 

He flies through the void, free from the confines of that accursed prison and he relishes in his liberty.  He wishes nothing more that to go and find John, but there are more pressing matters.

_Food and raiment first. Been nearly a century since I’ve eaten.  Can’t meet John without clothing._

He passes through the slumbering denizens of the earth, searching for nourishment.  He visits the dreams of a great chef in Paris, who dreams of creating his next great dish.  The food is delicious and rich; it fills his growling empty belly.  Next, he creates a coat from the starless night sky in the dreams of an old sailor wishing to taste the salt of the sea and see the vast wide open sky just once more. 

_Adequate...for now. Now, to meet John._

 

**New York City, United States – 19 th October, 2010**

John folds his paper and takes a final sip of coffee.  He reaches into his coat pocket and fumbles for a few dollars to pay for his drink, but stops short when he feels a weight on his left shoulder.  His eyes wander over to the shoulder to see a long pale hand resting there.

_No, no it can’t be..._

He turns the remainder of his body and comes face to face with Sherlock.  John stares dumbly and blinks rapidly.

“You – you.  Come here,” he stands and grabs Sherlock’s hand, dragging the taller man out the back door and into the alley way behind the shop.  Sherlock looks down at John with a small pleased grin,

“Hello Jo –”

His greeting is cut short by John’s fist meeting Sherlock’s face in a pain inducing salutation.  Sherlock clasps a hand to his face,

“Well...I suppose I deserve that.”

“You bloody well do!!” shouts John, “75 years Sherlock! 75!”

“Well, actually it was 94,” admits Sherlock sheepishly, “it was 1916 when left.”

“1916...if you left why didn’t you meet me when you were supposed to?!”

“Because...because I couldn’t John.”

“Couldn’t? Why the hell not?!”

“Because I _physically_ was not able to John.”

“What?”

“I...I was held captive, a man was convinced that I had the power to give him immortality.  Ridiculous notion really, the man was an absolute imbecile.”

“Again, what?”

“I told you John, a man was convinced that I could give him – ”

“Yes I heard what you said.  I’m just really not following.  How in the hell could he have been convinced that you could, oh.  You gave me immortality and so he wanted it for himself as well.”

“Not exactly.  _I_ did not _give_ you immortality John.  In a way, you bequeathed it to yourself.  You said so yourself, you were, are utterly convinced that death is a state of mind and so it became one.  No, he was under the impression that I could simply bestow him with it.”

“I see.  And why did he think you could do so?”

“As much I would love to regale you with all of the sordid details we don’t have the luxury of time.”

“We don’t?” John inquires sadly to which Sherlock responds with a sympathetic glance.

“Unfortunately no.  I am trying to recover some things of mine that went missing when I was...indisposed.”

“So, you’re leaving already?”

“Yes.  Care to join me?”

“Oh god yes.”


End file.
